The leaves all have strings,
all the strings have hands and feet-
written by the fingers above, dripping in ink.
The pillar of my back,
some Grecian perversion of support-
holds greenage and webs around, folding in sheets.
I those imprints followed,
of columns and feets, so achieved-
those rhythms and beats, singing in sync.
Empires of the muses,
our eyes so held in seeped water
that our vines be forced to grow and support.
Our geists so possessed, owned
by wet licked hands and old feet,
just print behind, walking buildings – our feat.


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